River Town_ Two Years On The Yangtze Part 3

In the mornings I ran to the summit of Raise the Flag Mountain, charging hard up the steps, my lungs burning high above the Yangtze. The effort was satisfying-it was challenging but uncomplicated, and at the finish I could look down on the city and see where I had gone. It was different from the work of learning Chinese, which had no clear endpoint and gave me more frustration than satisfaction.

There was a skill to running, and in some ways it was the only skill I had in Fuling. Everybody else seemed to have found something that he or she was good at: the owner of the dumpling restaurant made dumplings, the shoeshine women shined shoes, the stick-stick soldiers carried loads on their leathered shoulders. It was less clear what my purpose was-I was a teacher, and that job was satisfying and clearly defined, but it disappeared once I left campus. Most people in town only saw my failures, the inevitable misunderstandings and botched conversations.

And they always watched carefully. The attention was so intense that in public I often became clumsily self-conscious, which was exacerbated by my suddenly becoming bigger than average. In America I was considered small at five feet nine inches, but now for the first time in my life I stood out in crowds. I b.u.mped my head on bus doorways; I squeezed awkwardly behind miniature restaurant tables. I was like Alice in Wonderland, eating the currant-seed cakes and finding her world turned upside down.

Mostly I longed to find something that I could do well. This was part of why the simple routines of the city fascinated me; I could watch a stick-stick soldier or a restaurant cook with incredible intensity simply because these people were good at what they did. There was a touch of voyeurism in my attention, at least in the sense that I watched the people work with all of the voyeur's impotent envy. There were many days when I would have liked nothing more than to have had a simple skill that I could do over and over again, as long as I did it well.

Running was repet.i.tive in this way, and it was also an escape. If I ran on the roads, cars honked at me, people laughed and shouted, and sometimes a young man would try to impress his friends by chasing after me. But crowds couldn't gather around, and none of the young men followed for long. I ran alone, and in a crowded country that sort of solitude was worth something. There was n.o.body in the city who could catch me.

Usually I ran in the hills behind campus, following the small roads and footpaths that wound around Raise the Flag Mountain. I ran past old Daoist shrines, and atop the narrow walls of the rice paddies, and I followed the stone steps that led to the mountain's summit. I liked running past the ancient stone tombs that overlooked the rivers, and I liked seeing the peasants at work. On my runs I watched them harvest the rice crop, and thresh the yellowed stalks, and I saw them plant the winter wheat and tend their vegetables. I first learned the agricultural patterns by watching the workers as I ran, and I studied the shape of the mountain by feeling it beneath my legs.

The peasants found it strange that I ran in the hills, and they always stared when I charged past, but they never shouted or laughed. As a rule they were the most polite people you could ever hope to meet, and in any case they had more important things to do with their energy than scream at waiguoren waiguoren. And perhaps they had an innate respect for physical effort, even when they didn't see the point.

The air in the countryside was often bad, because the Yangtze winds blew the city's pollution across the Wu River, and I knew that running did my health more harm than good. But it kept my mind steady, because the fields were quiet and peaceful and the activity felt the same as it always had. That old well-known feeling-the catch in my chest, the strain in my legs-connected all the places where I had lived, Missouri and Princeton and Oxford and Fuling. While I ran through the hills, my thoughts swung fluidly between these times and places; I remembered running along the old Missouri-Kansas-Texas railroad pathway, and I recalled the rapeseed blooming gold on Boar's Hill, and the old shaded bridge of Prettybrook. As the months slipped past I realized that even these Sichuan hills, with their strange tombs and terraces, were starting to feel like home.

But still the signs on the way to Raise the Flag Mountain were foreign, and even as they slowly became familiar they reminded me how far I still had to go:

Build[image] Culture, New Give Birth Culture, New Give Birth

Population Increase,[image] Society Society

Education Is a Powerful Country's

DURING THAT SEMESTER there was a volatility to the written language; it constantly shifted in my eyes, and each day the shapes became something other than what they had been before. Spoken Chinese was also starting to settle in my ears, and soon I could make simple conversation with the owners of the restaurants where I ate. The same slow shift was also happening with regard to my tutors, who finally started to change from tone machines into real people. there was a volatility to the written language; it constantly shifted in my eyes, and each day the shapes became something other than what they had been before. Spoken Chinese was also starting to settle in my ears, and soon I could make simple conversation with the owners of the restaurants where I ate. The same slow shift was also happening with regard to my tutors, who finally started to change from tone machines into real people.

As this happened, I began to sense an edge to Teacher Liao that I couldn't quite figure. It wasn't simply her tendency to say budui; budui; she seemed slightly uncomfortable around both Adam and me, and there were moments when I almost thought she disliked us (which, given that we didn't pay her enough, would have been understandable). Later, I would come to recognize other reasons for this discomfort, but during that first semester I only sensed that there were complications in our relationship. she seemed slightly uncomfortable around both Adam and me, and there were moments when I almost thought she disliked us (which, given that we didn't pay her enough, would have been understandable). Later, I would come to recognize other reasons for this discomfort, but during that first semester I only sensed that there were complications in our relationship.

Once we had a tutorial the day after I had played in the faculty basketball tournament, and she asked what I had thought of the game. In fact, it had gone very badly-Adam and I were starting to realize that there was a great deal of resentment over our partic.i.p.ation, because the English department team was now suddenly very good. To the other partic.i.p.ants, the games were taking on a patriotic significance; it was a matter of China vs. America, an issue of saving face for the Motherland, and the games grew steadily rougher and rougher. The referees also took sides; they allowed our opponents to foul us while constantly whistling us for phantom violations. In the game before our tutorial, I had been whistled more than fifteen times for double-dribble-by the end of the game I only had to touch the ball and the whistle would blow. Adam and I were considering pulling out of the tournament, which we eventually did. It seemed the best solution for everybody involved.

I knew that Teacher Liao had been at the game, and I a.s.sumed that she felt the same way I did. My students had been embarra.s.sed by the poor sportsmanship, and they told me that the referee had a horrible reputation on campus. He was notorious for getting into fights-once he even threatened an administrator with a knife. His wife had recently divorced him; the rumor was that he had beaten her. And yet the college was unable to fire him, because of the job security that was promised to all state workers under the traditional Communist system.

I answered Teacher Liao's question honestly, telling her that I hadn't found the game much fun.

"That referee," I said, "is a huai dan huai dan." It was a common insult: bad egg.

"Budui!" said Teacher Liao. "It wasn't his problem-you were wrong. And you should not criticize the referee." said Teacher Liao. "It wasn't his problem-you were wrong. And you should not criticize the referee."

To me this seemed insult upon injury. I wanted to tell her: There are no tones in basketball and you have no jurisdiction over it. But she had more to say.

"You were dribbling wrong," she said. "That's why he kept penalizing you. You were doing this-" And she gestured, showing me that I had carried the ball.

"Budui!" I said. "That's not what I was doing. I was dribbling the same way I always do in America. That referee just doesn't like I said. "That's not what I was doing. I was dribbling the same way I always do in America. That referee just doesn't like waiguoren waiguoren. And he doesn't understand basketball."

"Budui! Here you can't dribble the same way that you do in America, because they have different rules in the NBA. That's the problem-you're accustomed to playing the American way." Here you can't dribble the same way that you do in America, because they have different rules in the NBA. That's the problem-you're accustomed to playing the American way."

She said it in hopes of ending the argument tactfully, because she saw that I was annoyed. But I had already heard too many explanations about "the Chinese way," and I did not want to be lectured about Basketball with Chinese Characteristics.

"Basketball is an American sport," I said. "We made the rules and I understand them. That referee just doesn't like waiguoren waiguoren." After I spoke, I realized how stupid my words sounded, and I might as well have continued: And we Americans can study a language for only four months and already convey our arrogance. But I didn't have the vocabulary for that, and in any case it was clear that both of us wanted to talk about something else. We reviewed a lesson about going to the airport and n.o.body mentioned basketball again.

Cla.s.ses were simpler with Teacher Kong, who alternated weeks with Teacher Liao. He was slightly less inclined to say budui budui, partly because he had a lazy streak, but also because the struggles of that semester were slowly teaching us to recognize each other as people. Eventually he would become my first real Chinese friend-the first friend who saw me strictly in Chinese. And even in those early months, before we developed a true friendship, I could see his interest growing. He sometimes asked me about America, within the limits of my vocabulary, and I sensed there were many questions he would ask once he had the chance. Certainly I had a few of my own that were waiting for the language to catch up with my thoughts.

We had cla.s.ses in my dining room, where the morning light was warm after the sun rose above the shoulder of Raise the Flag Mountain. We drank tea while we studied-jasmine flower tea, the tiny dried petals unfolding like blooming lilies on the surface of the hot water. Before he drank, Teacher Kong blew softly over the cup, so the loose leaves and flowers floated to the far side, and this was something else I learned in those cla.s.ses. If he sipped a leaf by mistake, he turned and spat lightly on the floor. I learned that, too-I liked living in a cadre's apartment and still being able to spit on the floor.

One sunny afternoon in December, I was preparing for cla.s.s when I heard loud music blaring from the plaza below. There wasn't anything unusual about that-the campus loudspeakers were always vomiting noise. But today I looked down from my balcony and saw a crowd a.s.sembling in front of the auditorium, and I knew that some sort of important event was about to take place.

My balcony looked straight down to the plaza and I could see everything clearly. A banner had been unfurled and stretched above the steps. I couldn't make out most of the characters, but a few were recognizable: "Safety," "Environment," "Peace." A row of chairs materialized below the banner. The crowd grew larger. Tables were set in front of the chairs. A blue cloth was laid upon the tables; teacups were put on the cloth. Microphones appeared.

I had seen this sort of arrangement before-it was a nesting area for cadres. Soon six of them marched up the steps and took their places at the table. I strained to see who they were, but I couldn't recognize their faces, and all I saw was that some were in uniform. But many people in Fuling wore uniforms and that never told you anything.

The speeches began, echoing up to my balcony. A crowd gathered at the bottom of the auditorium steps-mostly students, but also people from the neighborhood outside the gates, old peasants and women with their babies. They listened quietly, and in their silence I could see that it was a serious event. The speeches reverberated in the plaza and I couldn't understand what they were saying.

Teacher Kong arrived for cla.s.s and set his books on the dining-room table. "It's very loud," he said, smiling, and I agreed-too loud to concentrate on Lesson Thirty-one and its mindless description of a train ride to Guilin. We stepped out onto the balcony and watched the crowd. There were hundreds of people listening to the speeches now, and I could see groups of students hurrying down from the teaching building.

"All of the students have been excused from cla.s.s," Teacher Kong said, and I asked him what the event was. "They're going to panjue panjue two people," he said. "It's a public two people," he said. "It's a public panjue panjue."

I hadn't studied the word, and he explained its meaning until I was nearly certain I understood. I went into the dining room to double-check with the dictionary-"panjue: bring a verdict; judgment." They were having a public sentencing in front of the auditorium.

"Are they students?" I asked.

"No. They're from East River."

I asked what they had done, and he explained that there had been a series of fights between East River people and students in the physical education department. East River was a rough part of town, a seedy riverfront section of small shops and dusty warehouses. After the Three Gorges Dam was built, much of East River would disappear underwater, and few people would probably miss it. The dirty streets were depressing, and the residents, most of whom were poor, saw the students as privileged outsiders-spoiled kids who lived six or seven to a bare room, cleaned their unheated cla.s.srooms, and woke up at six o'clock every morning for mandatory exercises. Sichuanese town-and-gown tension was, like anything else, a matter of relative conditions.

Recently this animosity had turned ugly; some of the East River men had used knives and sticks in the fights, and a couple of students had been hurt. I heard about it from my own students, who wrote in their journals about a weekend night when two physical education boys had been injured and their friends returned to the dormitory for reinforcements. They were collecting weapons of their own when the police arrived.

"None of the injuries was too serious," said Teacher Kong. "But they want to show the students that the college is safe, so today they're having a public panjue panjue."

The cadres finished their speeches, the crowd waiting in expectant silence. Two men appeared, flanked by policemen. They wore cheap suits and their hands were cuffed behind their backs. The police marched them halfway down the steps of the auditorium, where they stood between the cadres and the crowd. The two men's heads were bowed. The students had pressed to the front; at the back stood the peasants and the mothers with their babies. Everybody was quiet. In the background, from the Wu River, I heard the low growl of riverboat horns.

One of the cadres read from a sheet of paper. His voice echoed over the plaza, and in response the crowd shifted and murmured. The two men kept their heads down.

"A few days," Teacher Kong said. "Only a few days in jail. Not very serious."

And in that instant it was over: the cops took the handcuffed men out the front gate, where a bus was waiting; the cadres disappeared; the tables were whisked away; the banner was taken down; the students returned to cla.s.s. The people in Fuling were extremely organized with public events and their rallies could materialize and disappear in the s.p.a.ce of an hour. Within fifteen minutes there was no sign that anything had happened in the plaza.

Teacher Kong and I reviewed some vocabulary from the trial, and then we moved on to Lesson Thirty-one. There was something strange about returning so quickly to cla.s.s after having watched the sentencing from high above, as from a luxury box at a stadium, turning somebody's public humiliation into a vocabulary lesson. But many things were public in Fuling and few locals would have found it unusual. I had Peace Corps friends at another Sichuan teachers college who, the following spring, had their cla.s.ses canceled one afternoon for a pre-execution rally in the school's sports stadium. Student attendance at the event was mandatory, because the criminals were young drug dealers and their deaths would provide a valuable lesson for the spectators. The college gathered in the stadium, where the police paraded the condemned prisoners in front of the students. Afterward the criminals were taken away to the countryside and shot. Cla.s.ses resumed as normal the next day.

NOT LONG AFTER the sentencing, I came back from a run and realized that the sign in the center of campus had become completely intelligible. This was a moment I had always looked forward to-from the beginning, I had seen that string of characters as a benchmark, and I traced my progress in the way those words became meaningful. And one day all of it finally made sense: the sentencing, I came back from a run and realized that the sign in the center of campus had become completely intelligible. This was a moment I had always looked forward to-from the beginning, I had seen that string of characters as a benchmark, and I traced my progress in the way those words became meaningful. And one day all of it finally made sense:

Teaching Educates the People, Administration Educates the People, Service Educates the People, Environment Educates the People

I stopped and took a long look. I read the sign again, waiting for the sense of achievement. But nothing was there-it was simply propaganda, the same sort of trite phrase that could be found in the students' textbooks or on billboards all across the city. I would react the same way when the other messages on the way to Raise the Flag Mountain came into focus:

Construct a Spiritual Civilization, Replace the Old Concept of Giving Birth Controlling Population Growth Promotes Social Development Education Is the Foundation upon Which a Powerful Nation Is Built

All of it was the same old cant. Every time one of the signs became intelligible, I felt very little of the satisfaction that I had once imagined. Instead I heard Teacher Liao's voice in my head: Read the next one. You haven't achieved anything yet. And so I kept writing the characters over and over again at my desk, gazing out my window at the city.

LATE ONE AFTERNOON in December, Adam and I were summoned to the English department office, where we were informed that there would be a banquet tonight. These announcements were always made at the last minute, and they meant that the evening was effectively finished, because it was impossible to go to a banquet and not get hopelessly drunk. in December, Adam and I were summoned to the English department office, where we were informed that there would be a banquet tonight. These announcements were always made at the last minute, and they meant that the evening was effectively finished, because it was impossible to go to a banquet and not get hopelessly drunk.

A good part of our Peace Corps medical training had involved preparation for these moments. Even though we were only the third Peace Corps China group, the Sichuan countryside was already littered with tales of volunteers who had become banquet casualties. There were stories of fights, of vandalism, of volunteers who had become so dangerously intoxicated that they forever swore off drinking at such occasions. Our medical officer strongly recommended that after arriving at site we establish ourselves as nondrinkers, at least as far as banquets were concerned.

The most frequently performed procedure in Sichuanese emergency rooms was stomach-pumping. The vast majority of these patients were male, because drinking, like smoking, was an important part of being a man. This was true in many parts of China, especially in the more remote regions, and Sichuan drinking wasn't simply a casual way to relax. Often it was compet.i.tive, and usually it involved baijiu baijiu, a powerful and foul-tasting grain alcohol. Men toasted each other with full shots, and there was a tendency for this drinking to turn into a kind of bullying, the partic.i.p.ants goading each other until somebody got sick. One of our Peace Corps training sessions had involved personal testimony from a Sichuanese man, who shrugged sheepishly and explained that even good friends were perfectly willing to drink each other into the hospital. Like the medical officer, he recommended that we use our waiguoren waiguoren status to avoid this ritual entirely. status to avoid this ritual entirely.

It was a typical Peace Corps scenario: having been told a wealth of horror stories about the pointless machismo of Sichuanese drinking, Adam and I were promptly sent down the river to the most remote Peace Corps site in the province. At our welcoming banquet, when we were served our first shot of baijiu baijiu, neither of us hesitated for even a second. Our training had repeatedly emphasized that this was critical to whatever it took to be a man in a place like Fuling, and as far as we were concerned this was part of our job. We hadn't come all this way just to be waiguoren waiguoren. We downed the shot, and we downed the next one, too.

During that first month we had two or three banquets a week, and soon I could see that all of the drinking was organized with remarkable intricacy The faculty took it easy on us at the beginning, no doubt because the Peace Corps had given all the colleges a stern warning about responsibility. But eventually our colleagues came to the same conclusion that we had: the Peace Corps was far away. Steadily the pressure to drink increased, and as time pa.s.sed I realized that the English department had an alcoholic leaderboard. This wasn't a literal leaderboard in the sense of being written down, but it was completely public and accepted. You could ask any teacher where his alcohol tolerance stood in relation to everybody else's in the department, and he would answer with well-tested precision. Party Secretary Zhang was at the top, followed by Albert, then Dean Fu, and so on through the ranks until you came to Teacher Sai, who was such a lightweight that people referred to him scornfully as "Miss Sai" during banquets.

Within three weeks Adam was the undisputed number one drinker in the English department. I was ranked second; Party Secretary Zhang slipped to third. In truth I wasn't much of a drinker at home, but Fuling tolerance levels tended to be low, because many residents have a genetic intolerance of alcohol that is common among Asians. Even Party Secretary Zhang, despite his lofty ranking, turned bright red after a few drinks. This was one reason why local drinking patterns were so abusive with relatively light consequences; most people were genetically unable to become alcoholics. Once or twice a week they might be able to drink heavily, but they got too sick to do it all the time. It was a ritual rather than a habit.

In a pathetic way, drinking became one small thing that Adam and I were good at, although it was difficult to take much pride in this. If anything, it said a great deal about our troubles adjusting to Fuling life, because the banquets and the drinking, despite their strange childishness, represented one of our more comfortable environments. We gained instant respect for our tolerance levels, and to a certain degree this was how the department authorities communicated with us. If they had something important to tell us, or if a request needed to be made, it was handled at a banquet. Our colleagues, who usually seemed stiff and nervous around the waiguoren waiguoren, loosened up once the baijiu baijiu started flowing. These events were strictly all-male-the only women involved were the waitresses who served the started flowing. These events were strictly all-male-the only women involved were the waitresses who served the baijiu baijiu.

Before the December banquet, Adam and I were escorted into the English department office to meet our hosts for the evening. Two men stood up and shook our hands, smiling. One of them was a tall handsome man in his forties and the other was a short older man of perhaps sixty years. The tall man wore a new sweater, and from the way he carried himself it was clear that he was important-a cadre. It was also just as obvious that they were here to make some request of us, because they were sponsoring the meal. Teacher Sai and Dean Fu were there to translate.

"This is Mr. w.a.n.g from the Chinese department," Teacher Sai said. "Mr. w.a.n.g came to the college in 1977-he was part of the first cla.s.s when the college opened after the Great Cultural Revolution. He was the best English student, but English was not a preferred subject in those days. So he became a Chinese professor instead. But he is still very interested in English."

Adam and I shook Teacher w.a.n.g's hand again. Teacher Sai seemed to have forgotten the other man, who didn't appear to be offended. Obviously he was accustomed to moving in the bigger man's wake.

All of us sat down. Adam and I waited for the request; cynically I a.s.sumed that Teacher w.a.n.g wanted English lessons. Already I could imagine myself sitting in this cadre's office, bored to tears while he said, slowly, "How-are-you?"

"Mr. w.a.n.g has heard that you studied literature," Dean Fu said. "He wants to ask you some questions about American literature."

This took me by surprise. I asked him what he meant.

"Mr. w.a.n.g is the editor of the college literary magazine," said Dean Fu. "He has more than ten thousand books."

He paused to let the number sink in. Then he leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. "Mr. w.a.n.g," he said, "has the most books of anybody in Fuling Teachers College."

A proud smile flickered across Teacher w.a.n.g's face and I could see that he understood what had been said. I wondered if Sichuanese men had book rankings as well as alcohol rankings, and what the relationship might be between these two sources of prestige. This was all uncharted territory-in Peace Corps training n.o.body had warned us about books.

I said that I knew less about American literature than English literature, but I'd try to answer his questions. Teacher w.a.n.g nodded and shot off his first query in Chinese to Dean Fu, who translated.

"Mr. w.a.n.g has a question about Saul Bellow," he announced. "Does the average American understand his books?"

I said that I had read very little of Bellow's work, but my impression was that his style was accessible, and that he was considered one of the best Jewish American writers and a voice of Chicago. Teacher w.a.n.g nodded, as if this was what he had expected to hear. He had another question ready.

"What about Joyce Carol Oates?" Dean Fu said. "Do you think that she follows in the tradition of Virginia Woolf?"

"Not really," I said. "Most people say that Joyce Carol Oates isn't a feminist writer. Actually, some feminists criticize her."

This led us to a discussion on feminism, followed by Toni Morrison and black women writers, and then we came to southern literature. After that we talked about Hemingway and the "Dirty Realism" of authors like Raymond Carver and Tobias Wolff. All of it was translated through Dean Fu, and as we talked I realized that he had an even more impressive knowledge of American literature than I had thought. I also realized that I was a jacka.s.s for a.s.suming that the ten-thousand-book Teacher w.a.n.g needed my help to say "How-are-you."

After half an hour we moved to the banquet hall. The first toast was a general one, for everybody at the table, and then Teacher w.a.n.g gave Adam and me a special toast. Party Secretary Zhang followed with another shot for the entire party. When the next toast came around, Teacher Sai pushed his cup away and grinned nervously.

"I can't drink any more," he said. "That is enough."

"Drink it," said Party Secretary Zhang. "All of it."

"You know that I do not drink," Teacher Sai said. He brought his hands together and bowed his head quickly in a pleading gesture. Teacher Sai was one of the brightest of the department teachers, a pudgy man in his forties who was always smiling. Tonight his face was already bright red after two shots. He shook his head again.

"No, no, no," said Party Secretary Zhang. "You must do it for our guests."

"I can't."

They were speaking English for our benefit, but then they shifted to Chinese. While arguing they fought over the cup-Teacher Sai tried to push it away while Party Secretary Zhang held it firmly on the table. Dean Fu and Teacher w.a.n.g grinned. They joined in, scoffing at Teacher Sai until at last he picked up the shot gla.s.s. Everybody watched.

It took him a long time to drain the cup. He drank it in three painful sips, and after the last one he gasped and coughed. He put the cup back down on the table. Within seconds the waitress was there to refill it. Teacher Sai quickly put his hand over the cup, shaking his head.

"That is enough," he said.

Party Secretary Zhang tried to pry Teacher Sai's hand away. The waitress stood by patiently, bottle in hand. It was a quintessentially Sichuanese scene-for every scroll painting of a lovely river they could have had ten depicting baijiu baijiu arguments, two men scrabbling over a cup while a young woman waited with a bottle. arguments, two men scrabbling over a cup while a young woman waited with a bottle.

"Seriously," Teacher Sai said. "That is enough for me."

"Miss Sai," taunted Party Secretary Zhang, pulling at his hand.